


Raising the Odds

by kyaticlikestea



Category: 50/50 (2011), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Cancer, Chaptered, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Romance, Sick Fic, Sickfic, also a bit of a lol, arthur is a bamf, but not JUST angst, crossover fic, doctors wear glasses, friendship fic, gwen is sympathetic, slow burning relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyaticlikestea/pseuds/kyaticlikestea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin Emrys is 26 years old. He's not expecting to be diagnosed with cancer and told he's just as likely to die as he is to live. He might have just a few short months to come to terms with his own mortality, the fact that he really doesn't suit being bald and his growing feelings for his best friend, Arthur. How do you plan your whole life in just a couple of months?</p><p>Partially based on the 2011 film '50/50'. Completed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In months or years to come, Merlin thinks, he’ll look back on his reaction to probably the worst news he’s ever heard and think ‘ _God, I was a prat_ ’. That’s his first thought. His second thought is screw that, he probably won’t even be around in months or years to come, and now doesn’t he feel stupid. But he can’t help the fact that the first thing he thought when the doctor looked him in the eyes like he was trying to search for a cure within the very core of Merlin’s being was ‘ _they’re never on their own in the films_ ’.

It’s stupid, he knows. It’s so typical of him, with his reputation as a bloody people-pleaser, to want someone with him when he’s about to be told that yeah, sorry, you’re going to die. He can handle it by himself. He is twenty-six years old. He is a grown man. He doesn’t sleep with the light on any more and even his oldest childhood teddy is stuffed in a plastic box on top of his wardrobe. And yet he’s never wanted to hold anybody’s hand more than he does now.

He could call his mother. Why didn’t he call his mother? Or Gwen, or Morgana, or Arthur – Arthur would have been hilarious in this situation, he thinks; he’d probably have offered the doctor £3million to invent a cure on the spot and then sued him for everything he was and would ever be worth when he couldn’t come up with the goods – or even Lance? He curses himself for not thinking ahead.

“Mr Emrys?” says the doctor, gently. He’s holding out a box of tissues, but Merlin is dry-eyed and equally dry-mouthed, so he waves them away.

“I’m fine,” he manages to croak out. “Sorry. Just making plans. People to call, that sort of thing.”

The doctor smiles sympathetically, and Merlin sort of wants to punch the smile right off his face, even though he seems like a genuinely nice bloke. _Fuck you_ , he thinks, _you’re not dying_.

“We can go through treatment plans now, if you want,” the doctor says. “Or we can schedule an appointment for this afternoon, after you’ve called someone. I can shift my schedule around, make something work.”

Merlin doesn’t really know how to show any emotion other than numbness right now and he hopes that the doctor will psychically pick up on his telepathic waves of gratefulness as he nods _yes, I would like to do that_. The doctor smiles again, sadly, and starts writing something down in his work diary.

Merlin has one more question before he calls his mother.

“What are my odds?” he asks, barely audible.

The doctor stops writing and looks him in the eye, putting the lid back on his pen and putting it down on the desk, ensuring it’s perfectly parallel to his diary, before answering.

“Fifty / fifty,” he replies, and _shit_. Merlin suddenly gets hit by this ridiculous idea – he knows it’s ridiculous, can’t help thinking it anyway – that he doesn’t have even a second to waste in fighting this. There isn’t a second to lose, because those seconds won’t be tacked onto the end of his life.

“Give me the treatment options,” he says.

-

“Well, shit,” is the first thing Arthur says when Merlin tells him, and Merlin thinks it’s probably the most eloquent thing he’s ever heard his best friend say. “No, really. Shit. Fuck. That’s… shit.”

“It is,” Merlin agrees, downing the rest of his pint in one go. Arthur hasn’t even started his yet. It’s funny; with his twig-like arms and spider legs, everyone assumes Merlin will be the lightweight. In fact, Arthur, for all his muscle and bravado, will tell you anything you need to know after half a pint. It’s for that reason he’s not allowed near the wine at work socialising events.

“It’s not, like, a death sentence though,” Arthur says. “There are loads of people who’ve survived cancer, right? You read about them in the news all the time, these weak, sappy little bald kids who record Youtube videos and get to meet Kelly Clarkson and then just don’t die.”

The funny thing is that Arthur genuinely has no idea that what he says is offensive half the time. Merlin rolls his eyes.

“My odds are fifty / fifty,” he explains. “I guess I have as good a chance of surviving as I do kicking the bucket.”

“Yeah, that’s not so bad,” Arthur muses, swilling around his nearly full pint. He sets it down on the sticky table and draws a happy face in the condensation on the glass, followed by a sad face, which he then scrubs out with his sleeve. Merlin watches, fascinated. _Simple things_ , he thinks. “If you were a game of roulette or something, I’d probably bet on you,” Arthur continues.

“Thanks,” Merlin grins. “Your ringing endorsement of my survival skills is truly touching.”

Arthur sticks his tongue out and Merlin laughs. He definitely wishes he’d called Arthur earlier. He can almost allow himself to forget that his body is slowly being invaded by alien cells of his own making. Almost.

-

The plan is to start chemotherapy almost immediately. Merlin is absolutely fucking dreading it. He isn’t looking forward to the constant vomiting, weight loss, weakness and, of course, the hair loss. If he’s honest with himself, he’s dreading the hair loss the most; that’s what’s going to mark him out as a cancer patient. Even people who aren’t cancer patients look like cancer patients if they’re bald, Merlin thinks.

The general consensus amongst his friends is that he should take control and shave it all off. They’re all sitting around the huge dining table in Gwen and Lance’s front room, and they’ve nearly all stopped crying now, except for Freya, who keeps having to make trips to the loo to dab her eyes with a bit of toilet paper.

“You’re not going to die,” Gwen had said, rubbing his back in soothing little circles that had eventually made him itch.

“You’re going to make it, mate,” Lance had choked out through his tears, awkwardly patting him on the shoulder.

“I refuse to even get upset about it,” Gwaine had sobbed.

“Can I have your Xbox if you die?” Arthur had beamed, earning him a horrified look from Gwen and an affectionate shove from Merlin.

“I’ve promised it to Leon,” he’d retorted. Arthur had put his index finger beneath his eyelids and dragged them down to make a grotesque face in response. Gwen had then thrown a tea-towel at him, and they’d all sat down to eat, even though they all knew that no-one was really hungry any more.

“When do you start chemo?” Arthur asks about half an hour into dinner, pushing a limp bit of lettuce around his plate with his index finger. Gwen’s tried, bless her, but even after six years of domestic bliss, she still can’t cook worth a damn.

“Thursday,” Merlin answers.

“That’s only three days away!” Arthur exclaims. Merlin looks at him pointedly.

“Well observed, Captain Obvious,” he says, dryly.

“There is only one option,” Arthur states, ignoring Merlin completely. “My fine, feathered, soon to be featherless friend, we must get you laid, before your eggs are no longer able to hatch.”

Lance throws a hardboiled egg at him.

“Hatch that, douche,” he grins. Arthur returns fire with a handful of soggy lettuce.

Gwen stands up suddenly, slamming her hands on the table.

“How can you all joke around like this?” she whispers, her voice quivering. Merlin wants to fall into a black hole. At the very least, a mineshaft. She looks at them all, a mixture of confusion and despair, and flees into the kitchen.

Merlin stands to follow her, but Lance raises his hand.

“I’ll go,” he says. “Don’t worry. It’s not your fault.”

He follows his wife out of the room, and Merlin slumps in his chair. Arthur pats his head.

“Chin up,” says Arthur. “It might never happen.”

“Or it might,” says Merlin.

“I might wake up tomorrow and find that I’ve turned into a woman,” Arthur states. “Can’t prove it won’t happen. I don’t know if I’d mind that, actually. As long as I knew it wasn’t permanent.”

“Well, death is pretty permanent,” Merlin retorts, bitterly, and that shuts Arthur up for the rest of the meal. Merlin can’t even get him to talk about his latest string of conquests.

-

They’re standing in front of the mirror in Arthur’s apartment. They’d briefly argued about why they couldn’t do it at Merlin’s place, and Merlin had said that sweeping up hair was a process vastly complicated by the addition of the presence of chemo-induced vomit. Arthur had gagged and told Merlin to dose up on anti-emetics before he arrived, which he had dutifully done, even though taking them makes him want to throw up even more. It has been three days since his first chemo session and he feels like absolute shit. He isn’t sure whether a side effect of chemotherapy is the slow decay of all bodily tissue, but it certainly feels like it might be.

Arthur picks up the razor.

“Are you sure?” he asks, meeting Merlin’s eye in the mirror. “I stand by my earlier statement that it’s going to look really stupid with your little circular head and your sticky out ears.”

“My head is not circular,” Merlin mutters, flushing. “And yes, I’m sure. Might as well get rid of it before the chemo does.”

Arthur shrugs.

“Don’t come shouting at me when all the little howler monkeys in the zoo try and adopt you as one of their own,” he says, and Merlin is immediately incredibly thankful that he chose Arthur to do this out of all his friends.

Broadly speaking, Merlin can divide his friends into two groups; friends for life, such as Gwen, Lance and Morgana, and friends he’s seen naked, such as Gwaine and Leon. Arthur is the only friend who belongs in both categories. Whenever Merlin mentions this, he is usually asked to provide the full sordid story. The truth is that there isn’t one. They get horribly drunk one night, celebrating some promotion of Arthur’s that finally meant he gets his own office – with a calculator! – and end up too drunk to walk all the way back to Merlin’s flat, so Merlin crashes on Arthur’s sofa. Arthur always sleeps naked in the Summer and this takes place in August; Arthur wakes up with the hangover from Hell and forgets he’s got company, walks into the kitchen to get some Ibuprofen and bam, accidental eyesore. They never mention it these days, although Merlin does admit to gaining some perverse satisfaction from referring to Arthur as a ‘massive knob’, or some other variant thereof.

Anyway, Arthur lifts the razor to Merlin’s scalp and is about to start the deed when Merlin shouts something incomprehensible.

“I’m not ready,” he says. Arthur sighs.

“I know.”

“I have to do it though, don’t I?”

“Yep. Think so.”

“I fucking hate chemo.” Merlin looks down, not wanting to meet his own eyes in the mirror any more. They look so much more tired than he’s used to seeing them. Arthur plasters a fake grin on his stupid chiselled features.

“You look fabulous,” he beams, and Merlin manages a small smile, just because Arthur’s trying. “What does chemo even do, anyway?”

Merlin shrugs.

“Kills me before the cancer gets there first, I think,” he answers. “I’m sure that’s how it works.”

Arthur pats Merlin on the shoulder in a way that’s probably meant to be reassuring. After a few seconds, he starts up the razor again.

“Ready to try again?” he asks. Merlin squeezes his eyes shut tightly and nods fearfully.

“Don’t tell me when you’re about to start,” he warns. “I’m not going to look, just make it so – OH MY GOD, YOU’VE STARTED, SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

He wants more than anything to open his eyes and see the damage that his friend is doing but he’s worried that if he sees how ridiculous he looks he’ll stop the process and end up with half a head of hair. He keeps his eyes clenched shut and his right hand grips Arthur’s left – when did that happen? – so tightly that he starts to worry he’s going to break Arthur’s fingers. It only takes a few minutes before the sound of the razor stops.

Merlin is about to open his eyes when he feels Arthur’s hands on his face, covering them.

“Arthur, what the fuck?” he says.

“I just want you to be prepared,” Arthur explains. “You do have a rather circular head. I mean, I think it’s perfectly endearing, but, you know. You might not.”

Merlin waits a couple of seconds, but Arthur doesn’t remove his hands. Merlin clears his throat.

“If you’re sure you’re ready,” Arthur says, warningly.

“I am!” Merlin exhales. Arthur removes his hands. Merlin opens his eyes.

He wishes he hadn’t.

“I look like… my God, I don’t know what I look like,” he wails, putting his head in his hands. “Why did no-one tell me my ears were like that?”

“I did.”

“I mean, you could lift me up and carry me by those! This is just the straw that broke the camel’s back. First, I’m dying - ”

He feels Arthur’s hands close around his wrists and gently pull his hands away from his face.

“You’re not,” he says.

“ – and now I look like Mr fucking Potato Head! Oh God…”

“I’m not denying that one.”

Merlin whimpers. Arthur sighs and grabs him by the wrist again, this time dragging him out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

“I’m sure I can find a hat for you in here somewhere,” he murmurs, letting go of Merlin’s wrist and beginning to search through the drawers.

“I’m not a hat person,” protests Merlin nervously, chewing his fingernails.

“Well, clearly you’re not a skinhead person either,” Arthur retorts curtly, opening another drawer and pulling out a truly hideous rainbow beanie. It looks like it was knitted for the sole purpose of causing embarrassment.

Merlin shakes his head vigorously.

“No,” he states flatly. Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Trust me,” he says. “It doesn’t look as bad on.”

Grudgingly, because truthfully he’s starting to feel more than a little sick now and he wants nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep for years, Merlin accepts the hat and pulls it on. He sees a small smile creep over Arthur’s lips.

“Oh ha bloody ha,” he sighs. “I know I look like a dick, you don’t have to remind me.”

“Actually, I think it’s oddly endearing,” Arthur counters. Merlin gives him the middle finger, and Arthur pouts.

Merlin keeps the hat on for the remainder of the evening.

-

A few days later, Merlin is busy throwing up everything he’s ever eaten into the kitchen sink when he hears a knock at the door. He spits out the remainder of the pea soup he ate for lunch and rinses his mouth out.

“Coming,” he calls. The knocking continues, increasing in volume as Merlin rushes to answer it. “Fragile cancer patient in here, could you keep it down?” he shouts. The knocking stops almost immediately and Merlin doesn’t try very hard to feel guilty about exploiting his new status. After quickly gargling with mouthwash, he pads over to the front door and opens it. Arthur and Gwaine are standing there. Gwaine looks concerned. Arthur looks annoyed.

“Are you all right, mate?” Gwaine asks. “Nice hat, by the way.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin answers. “And thanks, it’s this dickhead’s.” He pokes Arthur in the belly and Arthur flicks Merlin’s ear. Gwaine snorts.

“Makes sense.”

“Why are you here?” Merlin suddenly asks. “I mean, not that it’s not lovely to have you here, but I’m not - ”

“Pleasure to see you too, Merlin,” Arthur beams sarcastically. “We, my friend, are taking you out!”

Merlin stares blankly at Arthur before gesturing down at himself. He’s dressed in tatty pyjama bottoms and a massively oversized Avengers t-shirt.

“I’d definitely get some mad cock dressed like this,” he states flatly. Gwaine almost chokes. Arthur just raises an eyebrow.

“My dear fellow,” he begins. “Without meaning to sound impetuous, before long, you won’t be able to come out with us. So humour us, yeah? We’re not going out on the bloody pull or anything. Just up the pub. It’s two streets away, Merlin.”

Merlin looks up at the ceiling, briefly wondering if there is a God and whether he has made it his life’s mission to play practical joke after practical joke on Merlin Emrys. When he looks back, Arthur is still staring at him pleadingly. Gwaine is raiding his cupboards. Merlin wonders why these are his friends.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premise of this chapter, in which the main character is persuaded to use his illness to attract women, is taken from the film 50/50. If anyone is offended by this, I can only apologise.
> 
> (Sorry for posting twice - accidentally deleted it. I'm ill. Shh.)

Unsurprisingly, despite having expressly told Merlin that they weren’t going out with the intent to get laid, Arthur attracts the attention of three fairly attractive and definitely drunk girls about their age and brings them over with him to sit at their table. Merlin suddenly feels very far away from it all.

“Merlin, this is Jenny, that’s Natasha and this is Kate,” Arthur announces, gesturing towards each girl as he says her name. Each one does a funny little wave when she hears her name and Merlin wants to bang his head into a wall. “That’s Gwaine, and the bloke next to him in the daft hat is Merlin.”

Great, Merlin thinks. It’s not even his bloody hat and it’s already become an integral part of his post-diagnosis identity. One of the girls – Jenny, he thinks – eyes him curiously, as though he’s a specimen in a museum she doesn’t quite understand.

“I don’t usually wear it,” he says carefully. He looks at Arthur, who nods for him to continue. Merlin takes a deep breath. Can he really do this? Isn’t using his illness to attempt to score a little… well, karmaically risky? Won’t it hurt his chances of beating it if he twists it to his advantage? He’s already only got a 50% chance of survival. He really can’t afford to change those odds in cancer’s favour. “I had a bad haircut,” he finishes lamely.

Arthur rolls his eyes, reclines in the booth and removes his arm from around Kate’s waist.

“Merlin, come and buy me a drink,” he says. “In honour of your haircut.”

He stands up and walks a few feet away. Merlin doesn’t follow. He has a pretty good idea of what’s going to happen, and he doesn’t think that he’s going to end up buying Arthur a drink. Arthur never accepts drinks from anyone. He says it’s only fair that he buys his own – and every round thereafter – as he is the heir of a worldwide business conglomerate and therefore fairly well-off.

Arthur leans down and grabs Merlin by the wrist, pulling him up.

“Come on, they’ll still be here when we get back,” Arthur winks, looking at the girls, who all actually giggle. Merlin wants to vomit, and for once it’s not because of the chemo.

Reluctantly, he follows Arthur to the bar. When they reach it, Arthur spins around to look at him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

“What are you playing at?” he hisses. “Play the cancer card! There’s no point in having it in your deck if you don’t take it out for a spin every now and then!”

Merlin shakes him off, angrily.

“I didn’t put it in my fucking deck,” he says. “In case you forgot, it was sort of out of my control. And you just used a seriously mixed metaphor.”

To Arthur’s credit, he does look genuinely remorseful for a few seconds before he rolls his eyes and cups Merlin’s face in his hands.

“Merlin,” he says, and Merlin is very confused right now. “You have got to make the best of a bad situation, and cancer is pretty much the worst situation I can think of. Apart from not knowing me, of course. But that doesn’t apply to you, and it isn’t going to any time soon. I’m not going to force you to stick your penis somewhere you don’t want to stick it, but you have to live a little, mate.”

Merlin pushes Arthur’s hands away from his face and folds his arms. Sometimes he forgets how sentimental Arthur can get after he’s had a few pints.

It’s the last words that hit Merlin hard. _Live a little_. Arthur hadn’t said it, but the ‘ _while you can_ ’ was implied. He sighs and smiles resignedly.

“You do talk such shite when you’re drunk,” he says. “And if you were intending to get me laid, you could have found me someone of my preferred gender.”

Arthur flushes a little.

“The cancer line won’t work on a guy as well,” he says. “I dunno, I think we’re less sentimental about these things. And poor old Gwaine, as a totem of heterosexuality, would probably feel a bit awkward if I brought over three strapping young men.”

Merlin can’t help but laugh at that.

“This is such a bad idea,” he says. Arthur reaches out and straightens Merlin’s awful rainbow beanie.

“I am always right,” he says, eventually. “Now, are you really planning on buying me a drink? Because, no offence Merlin, your wallet is a barren wasteland compared to mine.”

-

Surprisingly, Arthur is completely right. As soon as Merlin removes his hat – wool is itchy on bare skin, he justifies – the pitying looks he receives from the three girls are quickly replaced by warm hands being placed over his own.

“What are his odds?” Jenny asks Arthur, and Merlin wants to shout out ‘ _I’m dying, not deaf_ ’ but manages to hold his tongue. Arthur sighs.

“Fifty / fifty,” he responds. Jenny’s eyes widen and she looks to Merlin, ostensibly for clarification. He nods, and she takes his hand in hers.

“Oh, love,” she says, and Arthur mouths ‘ _you’re in there_ ’.

He is. He definitely is. Only half an hour later, she’s asking Merlin to walk her home. He looks to Arthur for confirmation that he should be doing this, and Arthur takes him aside.

“Go for it,” he says. “I know she’s not your usual… type. Best I could do on short notice, I’m afraid. Just close your eyes and think of England.”

Merlin shoves him.

“I’m Welsh,” he mutters. God, he’s nervous. He hasn’t slept with anyone in over six months, and he can’t even remember the last time he slept with a woman. He hopes he can still remember how everything works. He hopes things still _do_ work. Will the chemo affect things? Why is he doing this again? This is the worst decision he’s ever made, and he once bet on a horse with three legs. “Arthur, why am I doing this?”

Arthur shrugs.

“It’s what people do,” he says. “Don’t know why. Nothing wrong with a bit of hedonism every now and then, though, and you’ve bloody earned it.”

Merlin nods slowly.

“OK,” he says. “You’re right. I just should just enjoy myself. Lighten up. Right?”

Arthur beams.

“Right,” he says. He leans closer, conspiratorially. “And don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Merlin furrows his brow, confused.

“What secret?” he asks.

Arthur pulls away and regards him with a look that clearly says it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“That you’re going to make it,” he answers.

-

The walk to Jenny’s flat is blissfully short, spent in a mixture of awkward silence and small talk. She fumbles with her keys while she’s trying to unlock the front door and Merlin can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy; she’s as nervous as he is. In a way, that makes this easier. He can’t imagine how it would feel if she were confident and he let her down. At least this way there are no real expectations to fail to meet.

She kisses him as soon as they’re inside, before she’s even closed the door, and Merlin’s first instinct is to panic and push her away, which he almost does before remembering that this is why he’s here and starts to kiss back. He isn’t feeling anything. He has no idea how this is going to work. She pulls away, blushing.

“You are up for this, right?” she asks, biting the fingernail on her left index finger, a gesture Merlin finds oddly endearing. He doesn’t think he should find his potential one-night stand endearing. Alluring, maybe.

He realise he hasn’t responded, and nods.

“Yeah,” he says, gruffly. She smiles nervously and kisses him again, this time cupping his face in hers. Merlin remembers when Arthur did that at the bar and reflexively smiles; Jenny clearly feels him smiling into the kiss and thinks this means he’s responding to her as she starts kissing him with more intent. Merlin suddenly feels trapped with her hands on him and pulls away, slightly breathless.

“Are you OK?” she asks, concerned. “Do you need something? A glass of water, maybe?”

He shakes his head. He can do this. He just has to not think about it.

“I’m fine,” he replies. “Just… y’know, side effects and all that. This might take a bit longer than you’re used to.”

She smiles again.

“I’m OK with that,” she says, and makes to kiss him again. He lets her, briefly, before pulling away again. She doesn’t say anything but he can see she’s getting frustrated.

“Look, maybe it would help if we… took our clothes off,” Merlin ad-libs, immediately regretting it. He’s aware he probably sounds very odd. Even he knows that the disrobing is usually a process that occurs alongside the touching. She looks slightly bemused, but nods, pulling her dress off with ease. Merlin looks at her, standing in front of him in just her underwear, and urges himself to feel something, anything, towards her.

He’s in too deep to turn back now. He kicks off his shoes and pulls his t-shirt over his head, acutely aware that he’s not exactly in great shape after a few weeks of treatment and probably looks like he’s on some kind of starvation diet. Jenny has taken off her bra and Merlin gulps as he undoes his belt and clumsily steps out of his trousers. He pulls off his boxers at the same time as Jenny takes off her briefs, and now here they are and Merlin has no idea what the hell he’s doing.

Jenny moves closer. Merlin shuts his eyes. _He can do this_. He can feel her leaning in to kiss him and her lips are almost upon his when he has a realisation. He opens his eyes.

“Sorry, did you want me to take my socks off, or…”

Jenny leaps back and puts her face in her hands.

“I can’t do this,” she says. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t. And it’s not because of… you know, that you’re ill or anything like that, but I get the impression you don’t really want to.”

If she starts crying, Merlin will probably follow suit. He picks up her dress and awkwardly hands it to her. She takes it and holds it in front of herself, preserving her modesty. Merlin puts his boxers back on.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. She looks up and takes his hand.

“It’s OK,” she says. “I can see you’re not feeling great about all this. I’m not going to kick you out, you know. You’re welcome to kip on my couch or something if you don’t think it would be too awkward.”

Merlin wishes he could have been attracted to Jenny instead of all the bastards he’s fancied in the past.

“It’s all right, I only live a few miles away,” he says. “I’ll be fine. I’m really sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen like this. I thought it would be OK.”

She smiles, but it looks slightly bitter, and puts her dress back on.

“You can’t help it if you’re gay,” she says, and where did that come from?

Merlin stutters.

“I’m - ”

“Sorry, yes, I know. But it’s not me you want to be sleeping with, is it? It’s your friend from the pub.”

She picks up his t-shirt and gives it to him, and he puts it on, trying to work out what she’s saying.

“Gwaine?” he asks. She raises an eyebrow.

“No, not him. The blonde one,” she clarifies, and Merlin can’t help the disbelieving laugh that escapes.

“Christ, no, no,” he manages to say. “I mean, you’re right, I am gay – sorry, by the way, I thought I could do this somehow, it was stupid in hindsight – but Jesus, no. Not Arthur. Never Arthur.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Merlin,” she says, and it’s the first time she’s used his name. Despite the fact that they’ve seen each other naked, it feels strangely intimate. “Without meaning to be crude, you really don’t have a lot of time to figure out that what you’ve just said is complete bollocks. I suggest you start now.”

He puts his trousers on and steps into his shoes. He doesn’t really know how to reply. He could tell her that she’s talking shit, of course, because she _is_ , but he doesn’t want to be rude to her when she’s trying to help and he’s just ruined her night.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Any time,” she says, opening the front door for him. “Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Bye,” he says, and begins to head away from the most awkward sexual encounter of his life. He feels her grab his arm and he turns around.

“I meant it, you know,” she says. “Tell him. Before it’s too late.”

Merlin nods wordlessly, too tired to correct her, and she smiles at him. He walks down the driveway and feels her watching him until he’s turned the corner.

He wonders if Arthur had any more luck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm sorry this is so late! Real life got in the way, as it is wont to do. Hope you enjoy this chapter anyway, and sorry that I'm a fail. :)  
> -

Merlin doesn’t call Arthur the next day, or the day after. He contemplates texting on the third day, but decides against it, and any plans he might have made to phone on the fourth day are miserably ruined by another session of chemo and its side effects.

Six days after the embarrassing incident with Jenny, Merlin is busy lying on his sofa and thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if he died after all – and wouldn’t Gwen have a heart attack if she knew he was thinking like that? - when he hears the sound of the key in the lock and nearly has a heart attack, mainly because he doesn’t have a flatmate or a spare key. He heaves himself up with his arms and clutches his blanket a little closer, as though the intruder will see how ill and pathetic he looks and leave out of respect.

The door opens with a click and Merlin closes his eyes tightly, preparing to open them to the sight of a skinhead thug with a knife or a cat burglar in a striped top and balaclava.

“Merlin?” says Arthur. Merlin opens his eyes.

“Arthur?” says Merlin.

“Yes,” says Arthur. “It is I.”

Merlin pulls a cushion from the couch and shoves it over his face.

“Go away,” he groans, voice muffled by the fabric. “Leave me to die in peace.”

He hears the footsteps approaching quickly but doesn’t have enough time to properly react before he feels Arthur yank the cushion from him and throw it across the room. He opens his eyes. Arthur does not look happy, his arms folded and his face crumpled into a pitiful scowl.

“If you say that again,” Arthur warns. “I will personally ensure that you are buried in a dress – in about seventy years’ time, of course.”

“I don’t care,” Merlin replies miserably. “Everything hurts,” he adds, pathetically. He realises he’s acting like one of those cancer kids now, minus the admirable bravery and youthful courage, but he doesn’t care. His bones feel like they’re being bruised from the inside and he can practically feel his muscles wasting away.

“Tough,” says Arthur. “I _do_ care, and you’re stuck with me. Now sit up, and for the love of God – although I do hate to take my name in vain – eat something.”

“I don’t have anything in,” Merlin grumbles.

“Oh, Merlin,” Arthur beams. “Luckily for you, your best friend is practically a chef. I’ll whip you up something worthy of a Michelin star using bleach and stale bread if I have to.”

With that, he bounds into the kitchen and starts rummaging through Merlin’s sparse cupboards. Merlin watches him potter around, humming. He doesn’t feel sick once.

-

The doctor looks at Merlin over thin-rimmed spectacles and sighs. Merlin focuses on the painting on the wall behind him. It’s purple and blue, like a bruise. He doesn’t think it’s a very reassuring piece of artwork for a doctor’s office.

The doctor clears his throat. Merlin snaps back into focus.

“It’s not going well,” says the doctor. _Tell me something I don’t know_ , thinks Merlin. He’s been throwing up constantly and he aches to his bones.

“OK,” he says, which strikes him as rather stupid because it’s clearly not OK at all, but what else can he say? “What next?”

The doctor exhales deeply, takes off his glasses and folds them together on his desk. He steeples his fingers under his chin and meets Merlin’s gaze.

“Realistically,” he begins. “We could either continue with a higher dose of chemotherapy, or we could attempt surgery. I’d be inclined to go for the second option. Time is a big concern. It’s risky, but it’s less risky than leaving it.”

Merlin nods.

“Let’s go for that, then,” he says brightly. He doesn’t feel cheerful in the slightest, but he doesn’t see the point in showing it. The doctor probably feels guilty enough at is. Not that it’s his fault.

The doctor reaches into his desk drawer and produces a few sheets of paper. Merlin can read the words ‘consent’ and ‘risk’.

“I’m going to need you to sign this,” says the doctor, and Merlin does.

-

Gwen is waiting for him in the waiting room, sitting and flicking idly through a Cosmopolitan magazine. As soon as she sees him, she stands up. She’s chewing her lip as she always does when she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s desperately nervous.

“Well?” she prompts.

“They’re going to cut me into little bits and feed me to the dogs,” Merlin responds. Gwen’s face falls.

“Oh, Merlin,” she says, reaching out to hug him. Her arms fold around him too tightly and Merlin feels suffocated. As she pulls away, she offers him a small smile. “Are you OK?”

Merlin wants to tell her the truth but doesn’t see how it would help.

“Never better,” he says, smiling. His muscles are so tired that it almost hurts.

-

Morgana has thrown a birthday party for Merlin at her penthouse suite. It strikes him as slightly morose, seeing as his birthday isn’t for another five months. The implication that he won’t be around to celebrate it is there. Morgana says she wants him to celebrate before his surgery in case he’s still recovering. Arthur whispers that her lease is up on the penthouse in two months and she wants a chance to show it off while she still can.

He arrives, the guest of honour, half an hour late. The door is answered by a young woman Merlin doesn’t know, dressed in vintage furs and pearls. She regards him suspiciously.

“Are you invited?” she asks warily.

“I’m the birthday boy,” Merlin responds weakly. The woman’s expression changes instantly; the flicker of pity is recognisable before the false happiness is switched on, not quite reaching her eyes.

“Oh, sorry! Come in!” She ushers him inside quickly, as though afraid he’ll catch a chill in the warm July breeze. “I’m Marie, Morgana’s friend. Everyone’s just through here, in the lounge.”

Merlin’s not sure who she means by ‘everyone’. He’d only expected his friends to be here but it seems as though Morgana’s taken the liberty of inviting everyone she’s ever laid eyes on. People are everywhere, drinking expensive champagne and wearing jackets worth more than Merlin’s apartment. He feels very out of place at his own party, but then it’s very clear that this isn’t his party.

Marie takes his arm and guides him through the crowd. He wants to tell her that he’s not an invalid, that he can do it himself thank you very much, he’s been here enough times, but he doesn’t have the energy and he doesn’t want to make a scene. In the living room, Morgana sits on a chaise lounge with Arthur and two other men Merlin doesn’t recognise. She sees him and her face lights up.

“Merlin!” she cries, jumping to her feet and rushing to envelop him in a fairly stifling hug. He pats her back awkwardly. He doesn’t miss Arthur’s laughter, hidden behind his hand.

“Hi,” he says, pulling away. She beams.

“Glad you could make it!” she says. “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to miss my own party,” Merlin offers. Arthur rolls his eyes and Merlin grins. They both know that it’s not his party any more than it is Arthur’s.

“I suppose not,” Morgana smiles. “Oh, have you met Marie?”

“I have.”

“Lovely, isn’t she? She helped me organise this.”

“She’s lovely, yeah.” Merlin looks at Arthur, who’s turning a startling shade of puce due to his attempts to hold back his laughter.

“Lovely,” Arthur chokes out. Morgana shoots him an evil glare.

“Are Gwen and Lance here?” Merlin asks. Morgana nods, taking a sip of what Merlin assumes is champagne.

“They’re in the kitchen, I think,” she says. “Want me to bring them in here? I think the kitchen’s quite crowded.”

Merlin resents the implication that he’s no longer capable of managing crowds, but nods anyway. Morgana beams at him once more before leaving the room in pursuit of their mutual friends – the only ones Merlin’s expecting to see tonight. Arthur has finally stopped laughing and is attempting to catch his breath.

“You sound like an asthmatic,” Merlin says. Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“You can talk. You’re not going to be on the cover of Health Monthly any time soon,” he retorts.

“Touché,” Merlin replies.

Arthur shifts his glass – water, Merlin notices – from his left hand to his right. He’s obviously uncomfortable. Despite his upper class upbringing, he’s never much liked socialising, Merlin knows. He wonders if it’s because Morgana’s so good at it. There’s really no competition. Arthur grips the glass with both hands, and Merlin sighs, taking it away.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks. Arthur grins.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he says. Merlin grabs his wrist and proves for once and for all that he’s perfectly capable of pushing through crowds by managing a very suave escape.

-

They don’t go far, only to the corner of the street, but it’s far enough that Merlin can’t hear the idle chatter of anonymous socialites he doesn’t know and never will, and the stifling smell of alcohol and perfume no longer fills his nose.

“That’s mine,” Arthur says pointedly, looking at the glass of water Merlin’s still holding. Merlin raises an eyebrow and downs the glass’ contents in one.

“I needed it more than you did,” he explains, laughing at Arthur’s shocked look.

“You’re a mean-spirited little man,” sulks Arthur. “And you have funny ears.”

“I’m bald, too,” Merlin offers. “Don’t forget that.”

“Yes,” says Arthur. “And your elbows stick out at funny angles.”

“My second toe is longer than my big toe.”

“Your knees are all knobbly, like a chicken.”

“Your teeth are crooked.”

“Yours are probably going to fall out.”

“Your name is _Arthur._ ” __

“Your name is _Merlin_!”

Merlin acquiesces that his name is, in fact, Merlin, and they sit on the grassy verge between two driveways in companionable silence.

“I have to have surgery,” Merlin eventually says quietly. “Did they tell you?”

“Morgana did,” Arthur replies. “It sucks. Sorry.”

Merlin shrugs.

“Better to have it than not,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Arthur.

“Yeah,” Merlin repeats. They sit in silence for a few more seconds and Merlin likes how he can still faintly hear the music and the chatter from Morgana’s – _his_ – party. He doesn’t mind hearing it from a distance. He vaguely wonders if this is what the afterlife is like, hearing from afar, but decides that it’s the wrong side of midnight for that kind of thinking.

“Are you OK with it all, though?” Arthur asks suddenly. Merlin shrugs again.

“Don’t have a choice,” he answers.

“With all due respect, Merlin,” Arthur says, looking right at Merlin. “That’s not what I asked.”

Merlin toys with the idea of lying, but Arthur’s always been pretty good at seeing through that, and opts for a new tactic; the truth.

“No,” he says finally. “I’m not, actually.”

Arthur shifts so he’s sitting cross-legged, facing Merlin.

“Now, I’m not going to say this again,” he says. “Because I don’t much fancy growing a vagina or a set of ovaries. But if you want to talk about it, about _anything_ , I’m here. OK? And don’t mention to anyone else that I said that because I quite like my reputation as a man with a penis.”

Merlin laughs.

“OK,” he says. “Anything?”

Arthur nods, seriously.

“Anything. Except the X Factor. You’re never going to convince me to watch it.”

“My ‘date’ with Jenny sucked,” Merlin says. Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“OK,” he says.

“No, really,” Merlin continues. “I mean, what were you thinking, setting me up with a woman? You should have known as well as anyone that _that_ wasn’t going to work.”

Arthur furrows his brow.

“I was trying to help,” he says.

“Were you?” Merlin asks. He doesn’t know where all this is coming from. He thinks it’s somewhere deep inside his consciousness, a place more truthful than he’s accessed in a while. “Really? Or did you just want to pawn me off onto someone else? I know it must suck being responsible for me, but - ”

Arthur cuts him off by grabbing his shoulders.

“You’re kind of a bastard, you know that?” he hisses. “OK, it was a bad idea, and I should have known that right from the beginning. But Merlin, you can’t say I was being selfish. I have never tried – or wanted – to ‘pawn you off’, as you put it, because you’re my best friend. It’s not my responsibility to look after you, no, but you know why I do it?”

“Why?” Merlin asks, even though he’s pretty sure it was a rhetorical question.

“Because you’re my best friend and it makes me bloody happy to do it,” Arthur finishes. Merlin blinks.

“Happy,” he says softly. “Well, I’m glad one of us is.”

“I didn’t mean it like that and you know it,” Arthur sighs. “How you can think it makes me happy to see you like this... Jesus, you’re an idiot. Really. A stupid, big-eared, knobbly-kneed idiot.”

Merlin doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know if he’s meant to and isn’t sure how he can, anyway. Arthur runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.

“OK,” he continues. “No more trying to get you to sleep with women. Promise. But you have to do something for me in return, yeah?”

“Within reason, all right,” Merlin agrees warily. Arthur spreads out his hands in an approximation of a wise man, which he definitely isn’t.

“Talk to me,” he states.

Merlin thinks about it. It doesn’t seem like such an unfair trade off. He’s never liked talking about his emotions and he never will, but if he absolutely has to talk to someone about it, then it might as well be Arthur. He extends his hand.

“Done,” he says. Arthur takes his hand and shakes it.

“It’s a deal,” he says. “Should have sealed it with spit or blood or a kiss or something, but there you go.”

Merlin laughs.

“Maybe next time,” he says. Arthur looks at him, and Merlin thinks he seems sad.

“Maybe,” he says.  


	4. Chapter 4

Merlin’s surgery is scheduled to take place in four days, and he’s perfectly content to spend those four days vegetating on Arthur’s couch in front of re-runs of Star Trek. He’d be even more content to rot on his own couch, but Arthur has apparently decided that Merlin is in desperate need of constant supervision – ‘company’, he calls it, but Merlin’s too cynical to believe that it’s anything but a thinly veiled medical watch, or perhaps he just knows Arthur a little too well – and has stolen Merlin’s keys. So it’s on Arthur’s ridiculously plush suede sofa that Merlin is lying, remote in hand, under four blankets, the television nattering at half volume because Merlin’s head is honest to God _thumping_ , whilst Arthur bustles about in the kitchen like some underappreciated housewife.

Merlin sighs.

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate all that Arthur’s doing for him, because he does. He’d have to be kind of a dick to think otherwise. If it weren’t for Arthur, he’d probably be decomposing on his bathroom floor by now. No, it’s not that he isn’t grateful. It’s just that every time Arthur goes out of his way to do something – buys semi-skimmed milk instead of whole fat because Merlin likes it, or raids the nearest charity shop for dozens of garish woollen jumpers that he knows Merlin secretly adores but will deny under oath – he’s reminded of what Jenny said. ‘ _Tell him’_ , she’d said, ‘ _before it’s too late’_. Merlin, being the deluded idiot that he clearly is, had said ‘ _not Arthur. Never Arthur’._ Only he’s starting to realise that perhaps it’s always Arthur, and it always has been.

Arthur peeks his head around the doorframe.

“Random chance seems to have operated in our favour,” he says, walking into the living room and flopping down onto the sofa next to Merlin. “Man, I love this episode.” Merlin looks at him blankly. He’d assumed that Arthur had only recorded every episode of Stark Trek he could find in order to entertain Merlin. Arthur returns the stare.

“In plain, non-Vulcan English, we've been lucky,” says Merlin, cautiously.

“I believe I said that, Doctor,” Arthur finishes, beaming. He clearly takes in Merlin’s look of surprise and laughs delightedly. “You’re not the only one who can quote Spock ad verbatim.”

“Clearly not,” Merlin mutters. Arthur pats Merlin on the foot.

“There there,” he says, faux-soothingly. “You’re still my favourite Trekkie, Merlin.”

“You’re not mine,” Merlin says. Arthur looks wounded.

“Who is, then?” he asks. Merlin grins.

“Morgana,” he replies. Arthur places a hand on his heart.

“That cut deeper than you’ll ever know,” he says. “And after I cooked you such a lovely meal, too.”

“You managed to burn toast,” Merlin points out. Arthur shrugs.

“It’s the thought that counts,” he says. He’s right, of course. Merlin holds onto the thought when Arthur pats him on the foot again and excuses himself to finish off some work, leaving Merlin alone in a steadily darkening room without the energy to turn on the light.

-

Gwen comes round later that evening. Merlin has a sneaky suspicion that over the next four days he’s going to be seeing a lot of his friends. He has more than a hunch that Arthur is preparing for the worst, ensuring that all his friends visit him in case they don’t have another chance.

It’s not a particularly happy thought, but Gwen brings cake, so he can push it to the back of his mind and focus on the fact that he’s not alone.

“You look good,” is the first thing Gwen says when she sees him, the slight flush to her complexion the only obvious sign that she’s not quite telling the truth. Merlin just accepts the compliment, even though he’s wearing a jumper with a picture of a cow on it and jogging bottoms.

“You too,” he says.

“Hey, what about me?” pouts Arthur, sitting on the arm of the sofa next to Gwen and handing her a mug of coffee.

“Effortlessly prat-like,” Merlin assures him, earning himself a withering glare from Arthur and a smile from Gwen.

Gwen takes a sip of her coffee and looks around Arthur’s living room. Merlin has definitely left his mark on the space. Where there was once pristine pinewood flooring and artfully minimalistic furniture, there are now piles of blankets and jumpers and books and DVD cases and just about every pair of socks Merlin has ever owned because apparently a side effect of chemotherapy is that your body actually forgets it needs to circulate blood to your toes.

“Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” Arthur asks. “I call it Merlin chic. I called Grand Designs, tried to get them to do a piece on it, but I think they thought it was just too far ahead of our time.”

Merlin snorts. Gwen raises an eyebrow, but she seems more amused than anything else. Gwen has always been something of a moral compass for Arthur and it speaks volumes that she hasn’t found fault in anything yet.

“So, Merlin,” she begins. Merlin braces himself. “Do you, like, live here now?” She sounds genuinely interested and there’s not a hint of judgment in her voice, so Merlin shrugs.

“It’s better than staying at home by myself,” he answers truthfully. “And far less dangerous than trying to survive off my mum’s cooking.”

Arthur preens, obviously finding a compliment in there somewhere. Merlin sighs.

“Yes, Arthur, you are a true culinary genius,” he says. Arthur beams.

“And you should see me in a nurse’s uniform,” he adds. Merlin puts his face in his hands. Gwen just giggles.

-

When Arthur leaves to go to bed – he has an early meeting in London, apparently, and Merlin makes a mental note to find out what Arthur actually _does_ for a living because he’s his best friend and he owns a genuine Monet and it’s the kind of thing you should know about the guy you sort of owe your continued existence to – Gwen shifts tentatively closer to Merlin and rests her head on his shoulder. Merlin is reminded of their university days, when he and Gwen would sit like this for hours talking about everything and nothing, and he feels oddly nostalgic.

“Are you OK?” Gwen asks quietly, her voice muffled by Merlin’s jumper. Merlin is struck by just how small she sounds and he can’t resist the urge to hug her as tightly as he can (which, given his current condition, isn’t so tightly at all).

“Yes,” he says, and for some reason he kisses her on the top of the head because his mother used to do that when he was small and it was comforting. She squirms a little, pulls away so she can meet his eye, and takes his hands.

“Are you happy?” she asks. Merlin isn’t so sure that that’s a different question, but nods anyway. She sighs. “Merlin,” she says.

“Gwen,” says Merlin, because he doesn’t know what she wants and what else there is to say, and she sighs again.

“I just want to know how you’re feeling,” she says, and more quietly she adds, “you’d tell Arthur.”

Merlin feels a pang of guilt at this because yes, he would tell Arthur, and then Arthur would fix him with a look that would be half sympathy and half determination and tell him that he would be OK and that Avatar was on ITV2 in ten minutes. Then he realises that Gwen is still looking at him expectantly and he squeezes her hands gently.

“I’m fine,” he assures her. Gwen smiles, a little sadly.

“With all due respect, Merlin,” she says. “That’s not what I asked.”

Merlin lets go of her hands.

“I’m not unhappy,” he tries. Gwen shakes her head.

“Still not the right answer,” she pushes. Merlin groans.

“I’m as happy as I can be when I might only have four days left to live,” he says, finally. Gwen looks at him and suddenly she’s hugging him tightly and she smells like perfume and cinnamon and Merlin has _missed_ this, missed being treated like he’s anything other than completely fragile and breakable.

“Oh, Merlin,” she says. Neither of them say anything for a while. Then Gwen breaks the silence. “Arthur wants you to be happy,” she says.

Merlin feels something in his stomach tighten.

“I know,” he says, because he does.

Gwen lets go and smiles at him, a little emptily.

“He’s wrong though, isn’t he?” It’s not really a question, but Merlin furrows his brow anyway.

“What do you mean?”

She looks down at her hands and inspects her fingernails for a few seconds before answering.

“Well, he’s got this idea that you should see as many people as possible before your operation, realise that you have a lot of people who care about you,” she explains. She looks up at Merlin again. “But I think that sometimes it’s enough to know that you have one person who cares about you the most.”

Merlin doesn’t respond to that. He doesn’t think he’d be able to even if he knew how. Gwen clearly takes his silence for confusion as she continues.

“Do you remember a few years ago, when I had to go into hospital?” she asks. Merlin nods, dumbly. “Well, you were all on holiday, and none of you could come and visit me. Only Lance was even on the same continent. Anyway, just before I went into hospital, Lance came to see me. It was just me and him, sitting in the waiting room and watching all these people go in and out, some with their families but mostly alone, and he was enough, Merlin. And going by the way Arthur looks at you when he thinks you can’t see – and you don’t see, Merlin, you don’t – he wants to be enough for you, too. He just doesn’t know how.”

Somewhere from down the hallway, a clock ticks, counting down the seconds to midnight, to tomorrow, to the end of the world. Merlin can hear the light patter of the rain on the window. He doesn’t keep track of the weather forecast any more. He doesn’t see the point in learning the future off by heart when it might not be meant for him.

Gwen bites her nails nervously.

“I might have said too much,” she continues. “But you should talk to him, Merlin, and soon. Not because your time is running out, because it isn’t, but because with these things, it’s easier to be too late than too early.”

Merlin offers her what he hopes is a grateful smile because he doesn’t think he’s entirely capable of coherent speech right now, and Gwen pats him on the shoulder as she stands up to leave.

“I have to get going,” she says, and her tone is forcibly light. “You know what Lance is like. He doesn’t half worry.” She leans down and pecks Merlin on the cheek. Her lips are warm against his cold skin and that’s Gwen and Merlin all over, really. “I’ll see you next week,” she promises, even though it's Monday and next week is six days away, and with that she’s gone and Merlin is alone and there’s a cobweb in the corner of the room that he hasn’t noticed before and he can hear Arthur padding around upstairs, trying to keep quiet for Merlin’s sake, and Merlin _aches_.

He has three days left. He might only have three days left. He doesn’t have three days left. It doesn’t matter. It’s never enough time. He could tell Arthur right now, ‘ _you’re enough, you always have been_ ’ but what’s the point when it might only last 72 hours? What if 72 hours pass and Merlin’s still breathing and Arthur realises he doesn’t want him after all?

Merlin thinks in the conditional tense until he manages to fall into some sort of sleep, and when he wakes up there are 64 hours left and Arthur is nowhere to be found.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Arthur finally returns, there’s only 55 hours left and there’s a tea stain spreading across the suede of the sofa cushion. It’s shaped a bit like a skull and Merlin shudders as Arthur unpacks three carrier bags of grocery shopping in the kitchen. It’s partly from the cold; even in his ridiculous rainbow hat, hiding patchy regrowth, and a huge tartan blanket, Merlin is far from warm. He wonders if this is how skeletons feel.

“Where did you go?” he calls to Arthur. He hears Arthur drop a tin of something and swear. It makes him smile for some reason.

“Work,” Arthur replies, stepping into the living room and leaning against the doorframe. He looks tired. “I am incredibly important and earn an awful lot of money, you know.”

“I know,” says Merlin. “Ties that tasteless don’t come cheap.”

Arthur looks down at his tie. It’s a yellow and blue pinstripe affair that, from a distance, blends into a block of mud-brown. He grimaces.

“Actually, I have Morgana to thank for this one,” he counters. “Birthday present, 2009. It’s a classic. I think she got me a corduroy one for Christmas.”

Merlin sniggers, even though it makes his lungs crackle.

“It looks ridiculous.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“You can’t talk,” he says. “You are wearing a blanket.”

Merlin sticks his tongue out, and for the next hour it’s small talk and then there’s only 54 hours to go and he still hasn’t told him.

-

The next day, when the countdown stands at 44 hours, Arthur takes Merlin out. They don’t go far, not only because Merlin doesn’t really feel up to it, but because Arthur is a lazy git who won’t walk three miles when he could get a bus for two. They end up at the park,

“Gwen said you had something you wanted to tell me,” says Arthur, suddenly. Merlin’s heart thuds. He knows that Gwen is never anything but well-meaning, but he does wish she’d stay out of things sometimes. He’s reminded of the time she attempted to break his involuntary spell of celibacy by making a profile for him on a gay dating website. He still hasn’t quite forgiven her for his subsequent nightmarish date with Declan.

He forces a small smile, cold lips falsely upturned.

“Yeah,” he says. “I wanted to tell you that you can have my Xbox if I snuff it in a few days.”

Arthur snorts.

“I don’t think that’s it,” he dismisses. Merlin looks at him. He’s not getting out of this that easily, he can tell.

He sighs. He can think of a plausible lie. He’s good at that.

“I just wanted to say,” he says. “That I’m scared.”

And it’s not a lie, it’s really not. He’s fucking terrified. He’s facing his own mortality dead on, looking it square in the eye, and he doesn’t like what he sees. He thinks he’s entitled to feel a little fear.

Arthur’s face softens. Merlin feels momentarily guilty at the half deception, but he can’t tell Arthur. He just can’t. There’s only 40 hours left. If Merlin tells him now, the best case scenario is forty hours of Arthur feeling the same. The worst case scenario is forty hours of stretched out solitude, and sorry if Merlin doesn’t fancy facing that.

“You’re allowed to be, you know,” says Arthur. “I mean, I’m incredibly brave – nay, fearless – and I think that even I’d balk a bit at having to go through what you are. You’re dealing with it better than most people. Don’t beat yourself up about feeling a bit shitty about it all. You’ve earnt it, you know?”

Merlin nods.

He wants to tell Arthur, of course, that he’s the best friend he’s ever had, that he wants that to be the gateway to something more, because he likes the dimples formed by smiling and the sweep of blonde hair at the nape of his neck and the flush of his ears when he’s embarrassed.

“I’m scared,” he repeats, and it’s not a lie.

-

Lancelot furrows his brow disapprovingly and pours Merlin another cup of tea from the fancy teapot that he only ever uses on special occasions. Merlin leans back into the unfamiliar sofa and covers his face with his hands.

“Come on, Lance,” he groans. “I’ve had more pressing matters to deal with. Such as my potentially impending death.”

Lance wrinkles his nose and pushes the cup of tea closer towards Merlin across the coffee table.

“Yes, I can see you’re busy,” he says. “Busy ensuring that what could be – won’t be, but could be – your last few days are as miserable as possible.”

Merlin sniffs.

“I’m not,” he retorts lamely.

“Just put Arthur out of his fucking misery, Merlin,” Lance sighs. The swearword rolls too easily off his tongue for comfort, doesn’t sound as foreign as it usually does from Lance’s lips.

Merlin takes this as an omen.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

Lance raises an eyebrow.

“36 hours, Merlin,” he says. “Two nights and a day. You have all the time in the world after the operation – you do, you do – but don’t you want to get it out of the way before then?”

“No,” says Merlin, stubbornly. At Lance’s cocked eyebrow, he elaborates. “There’s no point,” he continues. “You can’t accomplish anything meaningful in 36 hours. You can’t achieve anything worthwhile. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“No, but the world was built in seven.”

“I’m an atheist.”

“You’re either missing the point spectacularly,” sighs Lance, cradling his own cup of tea. “Or you’re being deliberately obtuse. 36 hours is more than some people get, Merlin. Use it wisely, for God’s sake.”

“I’ll think about it,” Merlin mutters, and he doesn’t for another three hours.

-

His sleep that night is fitful. He’s in Arthur’s bed. Arthur isn’t, having valiantly given up his bed for the sofa when he decided that Merlin was going to stay with him. He dreams sporadically of cobwebs and spiders and bones and in between dreaming he can hear Arthur knocking about downstairs and he’s too tired to go downstairs and tell Arthur _yes_ , and then there’s 27 hours.

-

“It’s going to be fine, right?” Morgana asks, chewing her lip, leaving a tiny, almost imperceptible smudge of crimson on her front tooth. Merlin grips her hand a little tighter.

“Yeah,” he says. He looks across at Arthur, engrossed in a conversation with Gwen. “Think Arthur would have a word with the powers that be if it weren’t.”

Morgana smiles.

“He would,” she agrees. She looks at Arthur for a second. “He’d probably win, and all.”

“If anyone could, it’s Arthur,” concedes Merlin. He takes another sip of water and draws his cardigan around him more tightly. He’s not cold or uncomfortable. It’s a good feeling. He’d forgotten it. He looks at Arthur. He’s fully absorbed in his discussion with Gwen, gesticulating wildly and talking animatedly. Gwen listens, amused. Arthur’s always been like that. He doesn’t do things by halves. Merlin’s never appreciated it more than he has these past few months.

He looks at Morgana. She’s watching him, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Tell him,” she says, softly. Merlin sighs.

“Not you, too.”

“Everyone,” she agrees.

“Can we talk about something else?” Merlin groans. Morgana raises an eyebrow.

“Looking forward to your risky surgery tomorrow?” she asks, bluntly.

Merlin supposes he asked for it.

-

“What do you want to do with your last twelve hours of freedom?” Arthur asks. Merlin looks up, bleary-eyed, from his nap.

“Sleep,” he suggests. Arthur scoffs.

“Merlin, there’ll be plenty of time for that on the operating table,” he says. “I forbid it. Now, get up. Put on your best little black dress. We’re going outside.”

Merlin moans.

“I can’t go out now, Arthur,” he says. “I feel like death. It’s 8pm. Can’t I just sleep?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

“Firstly, Merlin,” he begins. “I said ‘going outside’, not ‘going out’. There is a marked difference. Secondly, no. No, you cannot. Life is for living, Merlin. You’re going to dream it all away.”

“There’s not much of it left to dream away,” Merlin mutters.

“The average life expectancy of a male in the UK is 79,” Arthur counters. “That gives you another 53 years. That’s a fair old while.”

Merlin sighs.

“Pass me my scarf and coat, then,” he acquiesces.

-

The garden is cold and frosty and Merlin marvels at the way he can see his own breath, little plumes of white mist in the air, heavy with the threat of a dewy dawn. He wonders if the breaths he exhales will stay in the atmosphere after he’s gone, little puffs of gas amongst the clouds.

Arthur looks at him strangely.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Breathing,” answers Merlin. “While I still know how.”

Arthur huffs out a small laugh.

“You’re a funny one, Merlin Emrys,” he says.

He looks down at his hands, clad in an old pair of Merlin’s fingerless gloves. His fingertips are white. Merlin looks down at his own hands, soft and warm in a pair of Arthur’s ski gloves, and guilt washes over him. He sighs.

“Give me your hands, you moron,” he says. Arthur glares at him.

“I am not a moron,” he says, making no move to offer Merlin his hands. “I just didn’t want to be the douchebag who bagsied the decent pair of gloves and left my poor cancer-stricken friend to freeze.”

“Well, you did drag me out here,” Merlin counters, taking Arthur’s hands in his own, enveloping them in the thick fabric. Arthur sticks his tongue out. Merlin shakes his head and rubs Arthur’s hands between his.

“Thank you,” says Arthur. His voice is small and the garden is dark and there’s 11 hours left.

“It’s OK,” Merlin says. And it really is. He can’t give much, hasn’t got much left to offer, but he can give this. Warmth. It’s a fundamental thing and it’s human. It’s a connection.

Arthur’s cheeks are pink with the cold. Merlin doesn’t really know what he’s doing but there’s 10 hours and 58 minutes left and then his hands are on Arthur’s cheeks because he wants to warm them up, and then Arthur shivers and Merlin wonders if it’s from the cold, so he moves closer to Arthur, offering bodyheat, and then he thinks that Arthur’s lips look cold too and he thinks that that’s not right, so he presses his lips to Arthur’s and _yes_ , that’s warmer. And there are still cobwebs in the clouds and skeletons underground and a stopped clock in the spare bedroom, but Arthur’s here and he’s solid and he wants Merlin and Merlin wants him and it’s everything.

It only lasts a few seconds, a dry press of lips, but it’s a few seconds closer to the deadline and when Arthur makes a little noise in the back of his throat, Merlin thinks he could spend the next 10 hours just doing this, just being warm, and he pulls back slightly to tell Arthur that he’s found a way to spend his remaining time, but Arthur’s hands are on the back of Merlin’s neck and suddenly he doesn’t want to pull away any more, thinks Arthur knows what he wants, and so he doesn’t.

He knew 62 hours ago, he thinks. He was so cold for 62 hours. He didn’t have to be.

Arthur moves his hands slowly from Merlin’s neck, places them on Merlin’s cheeks and pulls away, meeting Merlin’s eye.

“You’re sure?” he asks. Merlin nods. Arthur inhales a sharp little breath. “Fuck,” he says. “You know I’ve wanted this for ages, right?” Merlin nods, slightly embarrassed. “And you do want this?” Arthur asks again. “You’re not just, you know, humouring me?”

“No, I do want it,” he replies, mouth dry. “I mean, obviously it’s not going to get any further than this tonight because I’m a bag of bones and I have an operation tomorrow and you know, this is quite nice actually, it’s not like we have to shag like rabbits to make each other happy, and - ”

Arthur rolls his eyes and kisses him briefly.

“Shut up, Merlin,” he mumbles, and Merlin does.

For 10 hours, 10 hours of bad television and tea and warmth, he does. 


	6. Chapter 6

“You’re going to be fine, you know,” says Arthur, holding Merlin’s hand more tightly.

Merlin sighs. The machine next to him hasn’t stopped beeping in two hours. He’s pretty sure it’s supposed to do that, but it doesn’t make it any less annoying. It sounds a little too much like a ticking clock for Merlin’s liking.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Arthur shifts slightly in the uncomfortable plastic seat next to Merlin’s bed, his fingers brushing across Merlin’s thumb as he does so. It’s an unintentional gesture, but it’s comforting all the same.

“They’re taking their time, aren’t they?” he asks, in a vain attempt to instigate small talk. Merlin wants to make some remark about prolonging the inevitable, but he doesn’t think Arthur really wants to hear it, no matter how true it might be.

“Well, that’s the NHS for you,” he says, aiming for light-hearted but ending up with distracted.

Arthur looks at him.

“Merlin,” he says.

Whatever he’s about to say is cut off when a nurse arrives and stands at the foot of Merlin’s bed. Merlin swallows hard, his heart-rate suddenly through the roof and startling the monitoring machine. The nurse waves for him to ignore its more frantic beeping.

“We’ll be heading into surgery now,” she tells him. Merlin nods, silently.

This is it. Moments and hours and counting down have all been leading to this.

He looks at Arthur, and Arthur smiles, obviously in an attempt at reassurance, but his heart’s clearly not in it. Merlin reaches out, and Arthur leans forward. It’s a short kiss, not much more than the dry brush of lips, but it’s loaded with meaning and things that might never be said.

Arthur swallows.

“I’ll see you when you come out,” he says.

Merlin manages a smile.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t see what good it could possibly do to say how unlikely that is. They both know. It doesn’t need verbalising.

-

He’s wheeled into surgery down a long corridor with painted walls, murals done by former patients, and Merlin wonders how many of them are still alive.

The trolley passes a crying woman. She might be a widow, a grieving daughter or a former parent. He doesn’t know what’s worse. He wonders who would cry like that for him.

Arthur would. Gwen and Lance would. Gwaine would, but only for a few months before he learnt that bereavement was the best chat-up line.

Oh God, Gwen would probably name her firstborn after him. Merlin wouldn’t wish that on anyone. He wishes he’d told her that.

There are lots of things he wishes he’d told her. He wishes she knew that he likes the way her hair curls, that it makes him smile when she’s so engrossed in her work that she forgets she’s left the oven on, that she should be good to Lance because he’ll be good to her.

There’s more that he wishes he’d told Arthur. He wants him to know that he’s sorry, first and foremost, that he didn’t plan any of this. He wants him to know that what they touched upon last night was just the scratching of a surface that should have been explored years ago, and that if they’d had time, they could have made up for it. There are smaller things, too. He wants to tell him that he likes the red tie better than the blue one, that he always puts just the right amount of milk in Merlin’s tea, that he works too hard and it makes Merlin ache to see him unhappy. Merlin wants him to be happy. That’s all he’s ever really wanted.

If Merlin dies, that’ll make Arthur unhappy, and that’s reason enough to wake up.

The lights are suddenly bright, blinding enough that he has to close his eyes. The oxygen mask is placed over his nose and mouth and he counts to ten, thinks of Arthur and tea and how they promised to go to the park next Friday. Arthur wouldn’t go alone.

His last thought before the darkness consumes his consciousness is that he’s been thinking in the conditional tense, not the past.

-

Heaven looks a lot like a hospital cubicle, thinks Merlin. It must be Heaven, though. He feels deliciously warm, like he’s been wrapped in a blanket and fed toast and honey from the hands of angels.

“Not quite,” says an amused voice, and Merlin wonders why the angels sound so much like Arthur. His mother used to say that angels were made of all the things you love. That makes sense.

“Don’t mock me,” Merlin mumbles. It’s not easy to talk when he’s so tired. “I’ve had a very hard time. I died, you know.”

“You didn’t, actually,” says Arthur’s voice, and there’s something there, a concern and a relief that Merlin never thought an angel’s voice would have.

“You sound sad,” Merlin tells it. The voice laughs.

“Quite the opposite, I assure you,” it says, and then Merlin can feel someone holding his hand, his fingers slotting into the other person’s like a jigsaw. It feels nice. Heaven feels safe.

“Good, good,” yawns Merlin. “I’m glad that you’re happy. Can I sleep now?”

The angel squeezes his hand.

“As long as you promise to wake up again,” it says. “You’ve given me enough of a fright already, thank you.”

“Sorry,” says Merlin, because he is, but he’s also sleepy and then it goes dark again, but it’s a cosy sort of dark, secure and pleasant, and he really doesn’t mind it.

-

“You’re a lucky bastard,” says Lance. Merlin blinks and turns to look at where Lance is sitting. Gwen is with them, standing at the foot of Merlin’s bed, her arms crossed and a fond smile on her face.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t be,” Gwen smiles. “Lance is just being an idiot. It’s his way of saying that he’s glad you’re back.”

Merlin frowns.

“I was never not here,” he counters. Gwen chews her lip.

“Not technically,” she says. “But you know what I mean.”

“She means you’re not going to die anymore,” Lance explains. “Not before your time, anyway.”

Gwen raises an eyebrow.

“Sensitive as always, Lance,” she sighs. Merlin smiles.

It feels strange, not dying. His cells aren’t multiplying dangerously anymore. His body isn’t being invaded by things he can’t control.

He’s been told that it could come back. He has five years to wait before he knows whether it might. He thinks he can wait that long.

“You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid,” Merlin says. Gwen laughs.

“I think we’ll cope,” she replies.

Merlin thinks she has.

-

The park is cold and brisk and it’s been a week already since Merlin was discharged from hospital with the relative all-clear. ‘In remission’, he was told. That’s his status. It’s limbo, really, but it’s better than Hell, so Merlin will take it.

Arthur frowns at him.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he says. “Not that they’re usually worth that much. Ha’penny, then.”

“It’s 2012. I’m adjusting it for inflation and asking for a fiver,” Merlin tells him. Arthur shoves him companionably, and Merlin pushes back, somehow managing to take Arthur’s hand in his. They sit on the bench together in comfortable silence for a few moments before Merlin continues. “I’m just happy. That’s all.”

Arthur laces their fingers more tightly together.

“I’m not exactly displeased, either.”

“I thought you’d be devastated at having to put up with me for the foreseeable future.”

“Not really. Doing your funeral arrangements would have been a lot more hassle.”

“You’d have let Gwen do it and you know it.”

“I wouldn’t have, actually.”

Arthur’s frowning again now, and Merlin rests his head on his shoulder because that always makes Arthur smile. It works.

“I know.”

-

The six month mark is a special occasion, not least because Merlin finally agrees to move in with Arthur permanently. Gwen insists on throwing them a house-warming party that everyone knows is a thinly veiled ‘congratulations on not dying!’ affair. Merlin gets very drunk, as does Arthur, and they end up sneaking away and shagging in the cupboard under the stairs while everyone else drinks wine in the living room and reminisces about when they first thought Merlin and Arthur were a couple.

It turns out everyone knew before they did. Neither is surprised.

-

On the year anniversary of his surgery, Merlin goes for a check-up appointment. Arthur drives him and keeps quiet when Merlin snaps at him to stop fretting because it’s making him nervous.

When he gets the all clear, Merlin takes Arthur out for lunch to apologise.

-

When it’s been two years, Arthur asks Merlin to marry him. He proposes in their bathroom of all places because they’re on their way to an expensive restaurant, where Arthur had planned to propose, but Arthur panics and gets down on one knee while Merlin is brushing his teeth.

Merlin says yes, but doesn’t kiss him until he’s rinsed his mouth out.

-

On the fifth anniversary of the successful surgery, Merlin has his final appointment. Gwen drives him and Arthur to the hospital and waits outside with Arthur when Merlin tells them he wants to do this alone. She then waits outside by herself when Merlin changes his mind.

She takes them both back to hers for a party when Merlin gets his final all-clear.

He’s not ‘in remission’ any more. He’s officially healthy again.

He and Arthur don’t spend long at the party before going home together. No-one is surprised.

-

When it’s been six years, Merlin realises that he’s alive. Arthur is next to him, sleeping through his 9am alarm because it’s Saturday, and Merlin is alive.

“Thank you,” he says to Arthur, and Arthur grunts in his sleep in response, throwing an arm around Merlin and pulling him in more tightly.

“Thank you for keeping me alive,” Merlin says again, and this time, he’s sure he sees Arthur smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this, guys. I'm sorry it took so long to write! Real life has been hectic, and my internet has been a massive pain in the arse. I hope the ending was satisfactory for you :) 
> 
> You're all lovely!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Raising the Odds [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3195899) by [kyaticlikestea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyaticlikestea/pseuds/kyaticlikestea), [PureHeartedTyrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PureHeartedTyrant/pseuds/PureHeartedTyrant)




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